UC-NRLF 


M?  F.  BRIDGMAN,  M.D. 


Fairest  flow'rs, 
Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here, 

thou  shalt  not  lack; 

The  pale  primrose  ; 

the  azured  hare-bell ; 

The  leaf  of  eglantine  ;  bring  thee  all  this  ; 

Yea,  and  furr'd  moss  besides,  when  flow'rs  are  none. 

SHAKESPEARE  :  Cymbeline  ;  Act.  IV. 


What  affair  drives  thee 
Through  the  heat  of  the  day, 
Along  this  dusty  road  ? 
Bring'st  thou  wares  from  the  town, 
For  the  country  round? 

WANDERER. 

No  wares  bring  I  from  the  town : 
The  evening  's  growing  cooler. 
Show  me  to  the  spring 
From  which  thou  drinkest. 


This  way,  up  the  rocky  path  ! 

Thou  go  first.     Through  the  bushes 

Goes  the  path  by  the  cottage 

Where  I  live, 

To  the  spring 

From  which  I  drink.  GCETHE. 


BOSTON: 

A.    WILLIAMS    &    CO., 

283  WASHINGTON   STREET., 

1877. 


COPYRIGHT,  1877. 


By  M.  F.  BRIDGMAN. 


CONTENTS. 


AT  THE  COTTAGE,     .  7 

YOUTH  AND  AGE, 9 

UNDER  THE  WILLOW,                ..         .         .      ,  .  14 

ONE  DAY,    .         .         , 17 

SEAWEED,        >•••'..                                           .  20 

IN  THE  COPSE,     .                                                    .  23 

THE  NIGHT-WIND,  .                                   .  29 

A  SHADOW, 31 

ON  LOOKING  AT  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  BURNS,  33 

IN  THE  LAP  OF  EARTH,          .         .  •                .  36 


M191SO2 


4  Contents. 

BELOW  THE  WOODLAND,     ...  -39 

IN  THE  OLD  CHURCH-TOWER,       .     •    .         .  44 

BEYOND  THE  MEADOW,       .         .-       .         .         .         ^ 
INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  TO  MARGARET'S 

LAMENT,    .         .        .         .         .         .         .50 

MARGARET'S  LAMENT,      ...  r2 

THE  PORTRAIT, c4 

IN  PEACE, 58 

ABOVE  THE  VILL, '      .       60 

HADRIAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  His  SOUL,         .         .  64 

IN  SHADOW,         .        . 5e 

BY  THE  BROOK,        .         ...         .         .  69 

IN  THE  CRADLE  OF  THE  HILL,    .         .         .         .73 

A  FEW  WORDS  ON  SOME  ENGLISH  RURAL 

POETS,     .        .        .        .  .        .         77 

ON  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  SHAKESPEARE,    .        .        .80 
SERE  LEAVES,    .....  83 

NEPENTHE,  .        .  -      .        ...  .87 


.        .        .        ...        .        .        .       He  lay  along 

Under  an  oak: 

whose  boughs  were  moss'd  with  age. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak, 
But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe. 

COLERIDGE,  Christabel. 

Back  the  covert  dim, 

Anr1  the         .         .         ground,     .         . 

Carpet-smooth  with  grass  and  moss. 

MRS.  BROWNING,   The  Lost  Bower. 

And  the  ivy, 

Was  inwrought  with  eglantine, 

And  the  wild  hop, ' 

And  the  large-leaved  columbine. 

MRS.   BROWNING,   The  Lost  Bower. 


AT  THE  COTTAGE. 


There  the  rose  unveiled  her  beauty, 

And  each  delicate  bud  of  the  season 

Came  in  turn  to  bloom  and  perish. 

But  first  of  all  the  violet,  with  an  eye 

Blue  as  the  midnight  heavens,  the  frail  snowdrop 

Born  of  the  breath  of-  winter,  and  on  his  brow 

Fixed,  like  a  pale  and  solitary  star ; 

The  languid  hyacinth,  . 

And  daisy,         .         .         ... 

Lilacks  and  flowering  limes,  and  scented  thorns. 


CORNWALL. 


r  I  ^HIS  afternoon,  the  autumn  winds  are  silent  : 

The  landscape  sleeps ,  —  the  sky   is  calm    and 

mellow ; 
And  the  mild  air  is  full  of  golden  sunshine, 

At  length,  has  come  the  dreamy,  sere  October : 
The  southwest  sun  hangs  low  above  the  orchard, 
And  a  soft  haze  fills  all  the  quiet  valley. 

A  mile  away,  the  peaceful  river  glistens, 

While  through  the  elm-tree,  gleams  the  distant  village, 

And  like  a  shaft  of  fire,  above  it,  shines  the  church-spire. 


'8f'  At  the  Cottage. 

The  woodbine  listless  droops  about  the  window : 
In  the  lone  yard  the  leaves  drop  from  the  maples 
And  clear  against  the  sky,  stands  the  bare  locust. 

As  in  my  room  I  sit,  musing  upon  the  Autumn, 
Through  the  half-open  door,  in  yonder  chamber, 
1  hear  a  voice,  in  a  sweet,  clear  tone,  singing : 

The  landscape  no  longer  is  smiling, 
The  trees  in  the  woodland  are  sere  ; 

The  willow-leaves  swim  in  the  brook, 
By  the  door  the  shrill  cricket  I  hear. 

The  lily  blows  not  in  the  meadow, 

Now  all  the  June  roses  are  dead ; 
The  sparrows  and  kinglets  have  come, 

But  the  thrush  and  the  swallow  have  fled. 

But  the  thrush  will  come  back  and  the  swallow, 
When  the  sun  shall  have  melted  the  snows ; 

To  the  meadow,  the  lily  return, 
To  the  garden  next  season,  the  rose. 

The  Spring  to  man's  life  twice  comes  not, 
Not  twice  to  its  landscape  its  flush ; 

Blooms  the  rose  or  the  lily  but  once, 
But  once  come  the  swallow  and  thrush ! 

Against  the  window  gleams  the  purple  woodbine  : 
Beyond  the  river,  sleep  the  sombre  hemlocks, 
The  distant  valley,  and  the  silent  hamlet. 

Above  me,  in  the  still  copse,  glow  the  maples  : 
White  on  the  hazy  hills,  and  bare  the  birches, 
While  scarlet  burns  the  oak  among  the  pine-trees. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE, 
I. 

FAR  clown  the  fields,  between  the  pasture-slopes, 
Where  in  the  sunshine  basks  the  valley, — roams 
A  youth  with  handsome  face  and  flaxen  hair, 
Half-hidden  in  the  thick-grown  meadow  grass. 

Anon  he  stops  to  pluck  the  buttercups, 
The  dandelions  scattered  o  'er  the  mead, 
Or  gazes  at  his  image  in  the  stream, 
Between  the  sedges  growing  on  its  bank. 


The  flag  nods  often  in  the  reedy  fen, 
The  rushes  glisten  in  the  morning  sun, 
The  willow  o'er  the  streamlet  lightly  sways, 

And  in  the  moist  soil  waves  the  celandine. 
2 


io  Youth  and  Age. 

The  robin  trills  his  lay  from  yonder  ash, 
The  bobolink  is  singing  o'er  the  mead  ; 
The  bluebird  answers  to  the  blackbird's  note, 
And  in  the  spice-bush  pipes  the  water-thrush. 

The  purple-marten  in  the  oozy  swamp, 
Splashes  the  water  of  the  shallow  pool  ; 
The  swallow  in  the  rivulet  dips  its  wing, 
While  in  the  hazel  sings  the  meadow-lark. 

Sometimes  he  turns  to  chase  the  butterflies, 
And  pauses  oft  to  watch  the  summer  clouds, 
Or  in  the  shadow  of  the  alders  sits, 
And  listens  to  the  babble  of  the  brook. 

The  breeze  tosts  to  and  fro  his  flaxen  locks, 
And  radiant  in  the  meadow  is  his  face, 
And  pleasant  looks  it  in  the  glassy  stream, 
From  out  the  sedges  reaching  to  his  chin. 

Homeward,  at  length,  he  hies,  through  the  rank  grass, 
Nor  dreams  of  landscapes  broadening  miles  beyond  : 
Heaven  is  contained  in  that  one  patch  of  sky, 
And  the  round  world  is  bounded  by  two  hills. 


Youth  and  Age.  1 1 

Morn  passes,  and  the  noon,  and  wanes  the  clay. 
The  sun  drops  down  behind  the  neighboring  wood, 
While  evening  casts  its  shadow  o'er  the  vale, 
And  the  field-sparrow  chants  its  vesper-hymn. 


II. 


The  old  man  in  his  arm-chair  by  the  open  window  sits, 
And  feels  upon  his  cheek  the  soft,  warm  air  of  May, 
and  says  : 

"  Fair  looks  yon  meadow,  with  its  winding  stream  and 

stately  elms ; 
And  pleasant  yonder  slope ;  the  wood  that  crowns  the 

eastern  hill. 

By  the  front  door,  the  morning-glory  opens  to  the  morn  : 
The  woodbine-leaves  are  green ;  the  balm-of-gilead  by 
the  wall. 


12  Yoitth  and  Ape. 


White  gleam  the  snow-balls  in  the  yard  ;  the  lilacs  scent 

the  air ; 
And  sweet  the  perfume  of  the  orchard-trees,  beyond  the 

road. 


The  locust  now  puts  forth  its  leaves ;  and  blooms  the 

pear-tree  near ; 
The    cherry  by  the  garden-gate;  the  chestnut  on   the 

lawn. 


And  pleasant  are  the  notes  of  birds   that  come  with 

these  bright  days  : 
Yonder,  I  hear  the  bobolink ;  hard  by,  the  oriole. 

But  vanished  days  do  not  return,  nor  last  year's  flowers 

with  May, 
Nor  blooms  the  life  of  man  again,  when  once  its  Spring 

has  flown. 


Yet  lingers  here  the  sapless  stalk  in  the   sere,    frosty 

fields. 
To-day,    it    dryly    rustles    in    the     mournful    autumn 

wind  ! " 


Youth  and  Age.  13 


III. 


Long  since,  it  went,  the  flush  from  all  the  landscape, 
And  with  it  went  the  long,  bright  days  of  Summer. 
At  this  calm  evening,  in  the  sere  October, 
Clear  glows  the  sun  along  the  western  hillside, 
And  on  the  streamlet,  in  the  silent  meadow, 
Sleeps  the  soft  sunshine  of  the  golden  sunset. 
Bare  are  the  trees,  in  yonder  copse  of  maples, 
That  stand  midway  the  slope  below  the  woodland, 
Through  which  the  pleasant  autumn-sun  is  shining. 
And  in  the  copse,  about  a  lonely  headstone, 
Are  thickly  strown  the  scarlet  leaves  and  yellow. 


UNDER  THE  WILLOW. 

A  RUSTIC  fence  upon  the  slope, 
Not  far  beyond  the  orchard-trees, 
Surrounds  a  single  grassy  mound  : 
Within  it  gleams  a  pale-white  stone. 

In  the  rich  soil  the  clover  blooms, 
The  eglantine  nods  o  'er  the  mound, 
The  willow  by  the  headstone  droops, 
And  moss  half  hides  the  simple  name. 

The  mowers  in  the  meadow  swing 
Their  sharp  scythes  yonder,  keeping  time, 
While  through  the  orchard  comes  the  talk 
Of  laborers  in  the  corn  below. 


Under  the    Willow.  15 

Leaning  against  the  fence  hard  by 
The  grassy  mound  and  headstone  white, 
While  in  the  south  wind  gently  wave 
The  willow-tree  and  eglantine  ; 

While  o'er  the  fence  the  blackberry-bush 
Bends  low  with  ripening  clusters  near, 
Oft  in  the  south  wind  lightly  sways, 
And  shifts  its  shadow  in  the  sun  ; 

Long  has  stood  one  in  thoughtful  mood, 
Musing  upon  the  simple  name, 
Where  quiver  through  the  willow-leaves, 
The  sunbeams  in  the  dreamy  shade. 

"  How  many  years  have  flown,"  he  said, 
"  Since  he  and  I,  one  summer  day, 
Walked  this  same  field,  and  sat  beneath 
The  orchard-trees  on  yonder  slope  ! 

When  long  we  talked  of  summers  gone, 
And  long  of  summers  yet  to  be, 
As  closer  drew  my  heart  to  him, 
And  oft  was  mingled  soul  with  soul ! 


1 6  Under   the    Willow. 

To-day,  you  walk  in  other  fields, 
In  far-off  climes,  O  friend  of  yore  ! 
Yet  in  my  thought,  the  memory  lives, 
Which  hallows  all  this  scene  to  me. 

And  now  you  count  the  golden  hours, 
Where  all  that's  fair,  and  pure,  and  bright, 
Flows  through  that  life,  which  oft  I  think 
Must  sometimes  own  our  friendship  here  !  " 

The  mowers  in  the  meadow  swing 
Their  sharp  scythes  yonder,  keeping  time  ; 
And  through  the  orchard-trees  is  heard 
The  talk  of  laborers  in  the  corn. 

The  blackberry-bush  bends  o'er  the  fence, 
With  dark-red  clusters  in  the  leaves, 
Oft  in  the  south  wind  lightly  sways , 
And  shifts  its  shadow  in  the  sun. 

The  light  gleams  on  the  mossy  stone, 
And  sleeps  upon  the  grassy  mound : 
While  near  it  droops  the  willow-tree, 
And  o'er  it  nods  the  eglantine  ! 


ONE   DAY. 

r\  HAPPY  summer  valley  ! 

I  bare  my  forehead  to  the  wind  that  kisses 
With  its  soft  lips  the  hills,  and  thy  fair  bosom, 

While  in  the  sunny  orchard, 

I  hear  the  oriole  singing, 
As  on  the  grass  I  lie  among  the  hazels. 


Clear  bends  the  sky  above  me, 

As  sinks  the  round   sun  towards  the  western  woodland, 

And  near,  upon  the  smooth  and  sloping  greensward, 

Sleeps  the  warm,  summer  sunshine, 

That  through  the  drooping  branches, 

Steals   down  between  the  green  leaves  waving  o'er  me 


1 8  One    Day. 

Calm  lies  the  level  meadow : 
Among  the  elm-trees  gleams  the  peaceful  river, 
And  hazy  in  the  distance  is  the  hamlet, 
The  silent  hills  and  woodland, 
While  through  the  low-topped  birches 
I  see  the  small  pond  glow  among  the  willows. 


Beyond,  I  see  the  cottage, 

Half-hidden  by  yon  clump  of  thick-leaved  maples, 
Where  one  short  year  ago,  the  sweetest  flower 
That  bloomed  in  all  the  valley, 
Drooped  on  its  stalk  and  faded, 
Ere  on  the  ground  were  strown  the  first  June  roses. 


One  day,  —  one  day  in  Summer 
I  well  recall,  —  when  on  the  slope  below  me, 
We  sat  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  pine-trees, 

As  slept  the  golden  sunshine 

On  all  the  vale  below  us, 
And  the  smooth  grass-land  of  the  upland  pasture  : 


One    Day.  1 9 

As  near  us,  in  the  ash-tree, 
The  robin  sang,  —  while  oft  the  vesper-sparrow 
We  heard  in  yonder  field,  —  and  in  the  valley, 

Where  softly  slept  the  landscape, 

Between  the  poplars  glistened 
The  distant  streamlet  and  the  silent  village. 


One  day, — but  seven  short  seasons 
Have  come  and  gone  since  then,  —  I  oft  recall  it 
In  these  bright  hours,  —  a  day  that  thrice  is  hallowed , 

And  like  a  lingering  perfume, 

Within  a  room  deserted, 
Scents  all  my  memory  with  its  blessed  fragrance. 


O  day !  breathe  softly  o'er  her, 
And  gently  stir  the  grass  upon  her  bosom, 
The  rose  but  lately  planted,  and  the  hyacinth, 

On  the  fresh  earth  above  her, 

Whose  thought  to  me  is  sweeter 

Than  Spring's  fresh  breath,  or  sweetest  flower  of  Sum 
mer ! 


SEA-WEED. 


\  T  7E  sat  that  evening  in  the  ancient  farm-house, 
•  •        And  looked  anon  across  the  level  meadow, 
Which  the  soft  sunset  bathed  with  golden  sunshine. 

And  in  the  pauses  of  our  talk,  our  faces 
Turned  long  and  often  to  the  narrow  window, 
Where  through  the  small  panes  shone  the  purple  wood 
bine. 

The  oaks  upon  the  lawn  burned  in  the  pine-trees, 
And  brown  was  all  the  meadow-land  beyond  us, 
While  by  the  door-way,  gleamed  the  yellow  maple. 


Sea-weed.  '  2 1 


Upon  the  long  and  sandy  beach  below  us, 
We  heard  the  ceaseless  murmur  of  the  ocean, 
The  deep,  low  music  of  its  solemn  anthem. 


Eastward,  we  saw  beyond  the  craggy  headland, 

Where  darkly  rose  the  rock  above  the  waters, 

A  speck  against  the  sky, —  the  distant  light-house. 

And  in  the  distance,  as  our  eyes  turned  seaward, 
Beheld  three  white  sails  on  the  clear  horizon, 
And  over  them,  the  pale  moon,  at  its  quarter. 

Often  we  turned  the  leaves  of  memory  over, 
As  to  and  fro  swayed  the  dark,  purple  woodbine, 
In  the  chill  autumn  air, —  beside  the  casement. 

And  when  the  sun  went  down  behind  the  woodland, 
And  faded  from  our  sight  the  far-off  hamlet, 
While  dim  the  western  lowland  lay  in  shadow, — 

As  loomed  the  hills  against  the  dark  horizon, 
And  all  the  surface  of  the  sombre  landscape 
Lay  vague,  at  length,  in  our  imperfect  vision, — 


2  2  Sea-weed. 

Long  talked  we, —  and  revived  our  ancient  f  riendship,- 
As  glowed  the  Past,  from  out  its  half-dead  ashes, 
While  in  the  fire-place  burned  the  dying  embers. 

And  on  the  long  and  sandy  beach  below  us, 
We  heard  the  deep,  low  murmur  of  the  ocean, 
As  o'er  it  hung  the  red  moon,  at  its  quarter. 


IN  THE  COPSE. 

"Ah,  folly,"  in  mimic  cadence  answered  James  — 

"Ah,  folly,  for  it  lies  so  far  away. 

Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our  children's  time, 

'Tis  like  the  second  world  to  us  that  live, 

'T  were  all  as  well  to  fix  our  hopes  on  Heaven 

As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year." 

With  that,  he  struck  his  staff  against  the  rocks 
And  broke  it,  —  James,  —  you  know  him,  old,  but  full 
Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his  feet, 
And  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter  woods, 
O'erflourished  with  the  hoary  clematis  : 
Then  added,  all  in  heat  : 

"  What  stuff  is  this  ? 

Old  writers  pushed  the  happy  season  back  — 
The  more  fools  they  ,  —  we  forward  :  dreamers  both  : 
You  most,  that  in  an  age,  when  every  hour 
Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the  death, 
Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seedsman,  rapt 
Upon  the  teeming  harvest,  should  not  dip 
His  hand  into  the  bag  ;  but  well  I  know 
That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels  he  works, 
This  same  grand  year  is  ever  at  the  doors." 

TENNYSON  :   The  Golden  Year. 


sat  together  in  the  copse, 
Whose  shadow  had  along  the  quiet  hillside  crept, 
And  talked  near  half  the  July  afternoon  away, 
My  old-time  college  friend  and  I. 


24  In  the  Copse. 

And  since,  that  day  has  been  to  me 
Like  some  rare  dream  which  we  recall  when  sleep  is 

past,— 
Which  brightens  soft  o'er  Memory's  fields,  as  when  the 

sun 
At  evening,  gilds  a  distant  scene. 

There  sat  my  old-time  friend  and  I. 
The    breeze    of    summer  softly   fanned    his  brow  and 

mine, — 
While  from  the  level  meadow,  where  the  lazy  stream 

Flowed  southward  through  the  alders  green, 

The  bobolink  sent  up  its  note. 

There  the  great  elms  their  shadows  cast  along  the  ground, 
A.nd  the  thick  grass  already  had  begun  to  wave, 

And  in  it  bloom  the  meadow-sweet. 

In  the  rich  grass-land  on  the  slope, 
The  dandelions  nodded  to  the  warm,  south  wind, 
And  all  the  field  was  pied  with  buttercups, 

And  clover-blossoms,  white  and  red. 

Often,  across  the  vale  we  looked. 
The  pleasant  hillside  in  the  sunshine  lay, — and  green 
Upon  the  summit  all  the  silent  woodland  glowed, 

Embossed  against  the  peaceful  sky. 


In  t/ie  Copse.  25 


Below,  the  large,  square  farm-house  slept 
In  the  cool  shadow  of  the  chestnuts  at  our  feet : 
Beyond,  we  saw  the  shimmer  of  the  winding  brook, 

The  small  spire  of  the  distant  vill. 

Oft  in  the  copse  we  turned  the  leaves 
Of  memory  o'er,  —  recalled  the  days  when  he  and  I 
Were  undergraduates  at  Alton  Green,  —  and  roamed 

The  pleasant  fields  of  ancient  lore. 

O,  oft  we  touched  familiar  themes  : 
On  much  the  syren,  Hope,  had  promised  us  at  morn,- 
How  half  the  blossoms  of  our  life  are  nipt  with  frost,- 

Or  oft  we  find  but  Dead-Sea  fruit. 

"  Well  I  recall,"  he  said,  "  the  days 
When  over  ^Eschylus  we  pored,  so  long  ago, 
Together,  —  with  Demosthenes  made  common  cause, 

Harangued  with  him  in  Attic  Greek. 

When  ^Eschines  we  daily  conned, 

'At  night,  exchanged  our  sleep  for  his  rare  eloquence,  - 
Trod  the  Athenian  stage  with  Aristophanes, — 

With  Homer,  made  the  siege  of  Troy. 


26  In  the  Copse. 

With  Plato,  oft  outwatched  the  moon, 
And  held  high  converse  with  those  philosophic  friends, 
Who  keep   him   company,  —  and  thought  the  hours  too 
short, 

While  listening  to  the  words  they  spoke. 

Life's  prizes,  o'er  and  o'er,  we  won  : 
I  was  to  choose  the  Law, —  and  was  to  reach,  at  length, 
Distinction  at  the  Bar,  —  perhaps,  try  Politics, — 

Climb  high  in  Party,  —  high,  in  State. 

You  was  to  sail  in  calmer  seas, — 
And  deep  in  Schelling,  Stewart,  Hamilton,  and  Kant, 
Was  a  professorship  to  win, — when  you  came  back 

From  Heidelberg  or  Gottingen, — 

And  from  your  academic  chair, 
Read  lectures  in  philosophy  to  college  forms, — 
Expound  your  German  metaphysics  and  your  Scotch, 

To  clever  Junior,  Senior,  Soph. 

The  years  went  by :  erelong  our  schemes 
Became  as  mythical  as  e  'er  the  siege  of  Troy : 
Europe,  to  you,  has  since  been  far-off  as  Cathay, — 

You  missed,  —  I  think, — your  college-chair. 


hi  the   Copse.  27 

And  I  ?     My  laurels  at  the  Ear, 
You  know,  are  all  unwon ;  I  never  tried  the  Law ; 
For  Politics,  of  every  school,  I  Ve  little  cared, — 

Nor  am  I  known  in  caucus  halls. 

Stewart  and  Hamilton  and  Kant, 
You  've  long  since  laid  beside  my  Blackstone  and  my 

Kent: 
And  if  you  never  lecture  now  to  college  forms, 

Yon  please  your  country  parish  well. 

And  on  my  hundred-acre  farm, 
I  manage  very  well  to  make  the  two  ends  meet : 
That  cornfield  yonder,  is  not  bad,  —  I  rather  like 

My  upland  crop  of  winter  rye." 

"  Ah  !  our  horizon  evermore 
Is  bounded  by  another  which  we  cannot  see," 
I  said  :  "  our  forecast  of  the  Future  cannot  show 

What  realms  stretch  on  beyond  our  eyes ! 

And  so,  if  Hope  has  played  us  false, 
If  most  her  promises  have  been  but  empty  lies, 
Wisdom,  though  late,  has  come  to  us  with  ample  stores, 

And  makes,  at  morn,  no  haste  to  go. 


28  In  the  Copse. 

And  in  the  humbler  paths  we  Ve  trod, 
We  Ve  found  what  Law,  Philosophy,  or  Politics 
Could  never  give,  —  in  common   deeds  far  more  than 
Fame, — 

And  richer  harvests  than  we  dreamed  ! " 

Across  the  smooth,  green  meadow-land, 
The  shadow  of  the  elms  stretched  towards  the  eastern 

hill': 
The  sun,  behind  us,  shining  down  the  western  slope, 

Touched  all  the  maple  copse  with  fire. 


THE    NIGHT-WIND. 


How  sweet 

To  watch  the  struggling  softness !     It  allays 
The  beating  tempest  of  my  thoughts,  and  flows 
Like  the  nepenthe  of  elysian  through  me. 


Hillhouse. 


THOU  pine-tree,  that  oft  wavest  thy  dark  branches, 
In  the  soft  starlight  of  this  summer  twilight, 
As  through  thee  steals  the  cool  breeze  from  the  valley, 


Within  the  moonless  air,  thy  boughs  are  sombre, 
And  where  I  lie,  below  yon  clump  of  hazels, 
Sleeps  thy  deep  shadow  on  the  summer  greensward. 


30  The  Night-Wind. 

But  oft  I  catch  faint  glimpses  through  thy  branches, 
Of  the  clear  stars,  in  the  calm  sky  above  me, 
And  the  pure  depths  of  the  celestial  spaces, — 

While  near  me,  in  the  twilight,  in  thy  dark  top , 
Like  solemn  whispers,  from  mysterious  voices, 
I  hear  the  soft,  low  murmur  of  the  night-wind. 

And  in  the  distance,  I  behold  the  faint  lights, 
Through  the  dim  night-air,  in  the  silent  valley, 
The  faint  lights  of  the  village,  far  below  me, — 

While  eastward,  through  the  deepening  August  shadows, 
Against  the  blue  sky,  on  the  low  horizon, 
I  see  the  distant  woodland,  far  beyond  me. 

O  night-wind !  softly  sighing  in  the  silence 
Above  me,  through  the  long  and  dusky  branches, 
At  this  lone  hour,  I  listen  to  thy  music, 

And  in  my  spirit  hear  thy  ceaseless  anthem, 
As  solemnly  within  my  soul's  deep  chambers, 
Whispers  thy  voice,  and  darkly  waves  the  pine-tree  ! 


A    SHADOW. 


Hard  by  yon  streamlet  she  sits,  where  the  sunbeams  are 

falling  soft  o'er  her. 
Gently  the  summer  breezes  are  kissing  her  cheeks  and 

her  forehead. 
Lies  in  her  lap  the  small  volume  a  moment  ago  she  was 

reading. 
Slowly,  among  the  smooth  pebbles,  the  streamlet  glides 

on  in  its  channel, 

Making,  meanwhile,  as  it  glides  o'er  the  stones,  a  mon 
otonous  murmur. 
Pipes  in  the  maple  the  jay,  and  the  robin  sings  blithe 

in  the  ash-tree, 
While  the  lone  blackbird  is  singing  hard  by,  in  the  green 

upland-pasture. 
Intent  she  looks,  musing,  upon  the  clear  brooklet  below 

her, 


32  A    Shadow. 

As  o'er  her  young  features,  steals  a  half-sad  expression. 
Sad  are  the  thoughts  that   the  story  she  read  in  the 

volume  awakens, 
A  tale,  tender  and  true, —  how  a  youth  loved  a  beautiful 

maiden, 

Long  ago,  in  a  country  afar,  by  the  blue-rolling  Danube. 
Pure  was  their  love  for  each  other,  and  long  kept  they 

their  affection. 
True  to  each  were   they,  when   at  length,   in   the   soft, 

pleasant  spring-time, 
At  the  small  hamlet,  the  priest  was  at  length,  in  the 

church,  to  unite  them. 
Months  come  and  go, — and  erelong  comes  the  pleasant 

and  beautiful  spring-time. 
But,  from  the  church,  on  the  same  day  that  was  set  for 

their  nuptials, 
Slowly   the    maiden    they   bore    to    the    small,    green 

church-yard,  hard  by  it, 
Of   amaranths,  wove  they  her  bridal-wreath  then,  and 

rosemary. 
Sad  are  the   thoughts  that  the  story  she   read  in  the 

volume  awakens ; 
Pipes  in  the  maple  the  jay,  and  the  robin  sings  blithe 

in  the  ash-tree, 

While  the  lone  blackbird  is  singing  hard  by,  in  the  green 
upland-pasture. 


ON    LOOKING    AT    THE    PORTRAIT    OF 

BURNS,  ON   HIS  HUNDRED  AND 

EIGHTEENTH    BIRTHDAY, 


WHERE  winds  the  Doon,  and  each  year  blooms 
the  heather, 

Or  waves  upon  the  sunny  rig  the  thistle, 
Or  caller  gowans  deck  the  glen  each  season, 


The  Spring  its  soft  flush  brings  to  all  the  landscape, 
And  smile  on  all  its  braes  the  skies  of  Summer, 
And  mellow  Autumn  shines,  on  fell  and  dingle. 
5 


34      On  Looking  at  the  Portrait  of  Burns. 

Oft  as  the  morning-  gilds  the  burn  and  upland, 
Or  Doon,  at  mid-day,  in  the  wicker  shimmers, 
And  nightly  sleeps  the  moon  upon  its  bosom, — 

Oft  as  is  heard  amidst  the  yellow  barley, 
Or  ripe  and  wavy  grain  within  the  rye-field, 
The  talk  of  cantie  reapers  on  the  hillside  ;  — 

Or  lads  and  lassies  gather  at  the  hamlet, 

Or  dance  at  eve  upon  the  leesome  greensward, 

Or  in  the  gloamin  chat  beside  the  hawthorn, — 

Or  often  as  the  cotter  sits  at  even 

By  the  warm  hearth  before  the  lighted  ingle, 

Or  carlin  croons  her  song  beside  the  chimlie, — 

Or  by  the  fire-place  sits  the  daintie  guidwife, 

Or  caddies  clatter  idly  at  the  ale-house, 

While  oft  the  tale  goes  round,  and  oft  the  ditty, — 

How  does  each  rustic  scene,  each  simple  pleasure, 
The  name  of  Burns,  in  every  thought,  awaken, 
And  take  fresh  charms  from  Scotia's  darling  poet  I 


On  Looking-  at  the  Portrait  of  B^lrns.    35 


His  name  along  the  winding  Doon  is  murmured, 
By  every  breeze  that  whispers  through  the  dingle, 
Or  stirs  the  grass  beside  each  Scottish  burnie. 


By  every  wind  that  sways  the  summer  thistle, 
Or  in  the  warm  glen  waves  the  caller  gowans, 
Or  on  the  hillside  curls  the  yellow  barley. 

By  every  lad  and  lassie  at  the  hamlet, 

In  every  dance  upon  the  leesome  greensward, 

In  every  cottage  by  the  lighted  ingle  \ 


Burn,  burnie,  water,  a  rivulet. 
Brae,  a  bank,  a  declivity. 
Caller,  fresh. 

Clatter,  to  tell  little,  idle  stories. 
Cantie,  cheerful,  merry. 
Cotter,  the  inhabitant  of  a  cottage. 
Carlin,  a  stout,  old  woman. 
Chimlie,  a  fire-place,  a  fire-grate. 
Caddie,  a  young  fellow. 
Dingle,  a  dale. 
Dantie,  agreeable,  pleasant. 
Fell,  a  level  field  on  the  side  or  top  of 
a  hill. 


Gowans,  daisy,  dandelion,  hawkvveed 
etc. 

Gloamin,  the  twilight. 

Guidwife,  the  mistress  of  a  house. 

Heather,  the  heath,  a  plant  of  the  ge 
nus  Erica. 

Ingle,  a  fire-place. 

Lassie,  a  young  woman, — a  girl, — ap 
plied  particularly  to  a  country 
girl. 

Leesome,  pleasant. 

Rig,  a  ridge. 

Shimmer,  to  gleam,  to  glisten. 

Wicker,  the  willow. 


IN  THE  LAP  OF  EARTH, 


Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth. 

Gray's  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard:  THE  EPITAPH. 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  and  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries. 

MILTON  :   Lycidas, 


HARD  by  the  wide  and  dusty  street  of  the  village, 
By  a  rude  wall  fenced  in;  is  the  enclosure, — 
A  small,  square  plot  of  ground, — the  village  churchyard. 


And  near  it  stands  the  ancient  church, — whose  windows, 
On  one  side,  from  the  high  and  narrow  casements, 
O'erlook  it  with  their  small  panes, — dark  and  sombre. 


In  the  Lap  of  Earth.  37 

And  there  the  grass,  each  year,  grows  rank  within  it, 
About  it  can  be  seen  thick  clumps  of  shrubbery, 
And  droops  a  willow  by  a  single  headstone. 

Within  the  spot,  luxuriant  grows  the  bramble, 
Whose  berries,  dark  and  red,  beside  the  low  wall, 
Ripen  among  the  green  leaves,  every  season. 

Upon  the  mounds,  you  often  see  the  eglantine, 
And  here  and  there  a  sad,  low  shrub  of  hemlock, 
A  stunted  fir,  or  half  a  dozen  sumachs. 

Among  the  shrubbery,  a  scattered  cypress, 

A  rose-bush  there,  which  blossoms  late  each  Summer, 

The  bindweed, — honeysuckle,  —  and  the  ivy. 

There  oft,  in  early  Spring,  you  see  the  primrose, 
And  close  beside  it,  every  May,  the  violet, 
In  autumn  days,  the  aster  and  the  cinquefoil. 

Each  Autumn,  o'er  the  wall,  a  wrinkled  grapevine, — 
About  its  edge,  a  few  blue  stems  of  raspberry, 
And  the  pale-yellow  leaves  of  the  witch-hazel. 


38  In  the  Lap  of  Earth. 

In  late  October,  berries  of  viburnum, 
Among  the  underbrush,  a  golden-rod, 

elder-berries  on  each  side  the  gateway. 


Beside  a  mound,  within  the  ancient  churchyard, 

A  woman  kneels,  in  the  mild  autumn  twilight, 

And  through  the  silence,  steal,  at  length,  these  accents 

"  Green  be  thy  lowly  mound,  through  every  season, 
And  each  year,  on  thy  green  grave,  spring  the  crocus, 
Ever  its  leaves  about  thee,  twine  the  ivy  : 

Upon  it,  blossom,  every  Spring,  the  primrose, 

And  close  beside  it,  every  May,  the  violet, 

Each  Autumn,  flower  the  cinquefoil,  and  the  aster." 


BELOW  THE  WOODLAND. 


Bring  an  oath  most  sylvan, 
And  upon  it  swear  me,          .... 
By  the  wind-bells  swinging  slowly, 
Their  mute  curfews,        .... 
By  the  advent  of  the  snow-drop — by  the  rosemary  and  the  rue. 

MRS.  BROWNING,   The  Lost  Bowet 


B 


ELOW  a  honeysuckle  bank, 

They  sat  within  the  pleasant  shade, 
And  through  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
Glowed  the  warm  sky  above  the  hill, 

While  a  soft  sunbeam 
Quivered  upon  the  silent  streamlet  at  their  feet. 


40  Be  low  the    Woodland. 


Over  the  eastern  hill-top  hung. 
Low  o'er  the  wood,  the  crescent  moon, 
And  often  on  the  steep,  cool  slope, 
They  heard  the  clear  note  and  serene, 

From  the  dim  forest, 
Which  the  lone  hermit-thrush  from  its  deep  bosom  sent. 


How  clear  it  fell  upon  their  ears  ! 
Ethereal  and  melodious, 
Like  the  pure  strain  of  some  rich  chant 
From  distant,  dim,  cathedral  aisles, 

On  some  still  Sabbath, 
Filling  the  sense  with  joy,  the  soul  with  holy  calm. 


Within  an  ancient  poplar-tree, 
The  yellow-hammer  lingered  near, 
And  from  the  fastness  of  the  hill, 
Sounded  the  veery's  mellow  flute 

High  up,  above  them, 
While  far  away,  anon,  they  heard  the  cuckoo's  note. 


Below  the    Woodland.  41 

Lightly  the  breeze  that  kissed  the  vale, 
Stirred  the  green  leaves  above  their  heads, 
And  near  them,  on  the  woody  ridge, 
Made  a  soft  murmur  in  the  pine, — 

And  often  nodded 
The  willow  to  the  alder  o'er  the  mossy  stream. 


"  Next  week,"  she  said,  "  so  soon,  you  sail ! 
How  wide  the  distance  and  the  time 
That  will  divide  your  path  and  mine  ! 
That  year  I  '11  think  a  whole  decade, 

While  at  the  farm-house, 
And  you  in  that  old  German  town  upon  the  Rhine. 


Autumn  will  bring  the  mellow  days, 
And  strip  the  woodland  branches  bare, — 
The  Winter  go,  —  another  Spring 
Flush  all  the  fields  in  yonder  vale,— 

Ere  from  the  Rhineland 

You  will  return, —  how  many  weary  months  to  me  !  " 
6 


42  Below  the   Woodland. 

"  One  week,"  he  said,  "  the  ship  leaves  port, 
And  sailing  toward  the  rising  sun, 
Will  make  its  voyage  o'er  the  main  : 
The  Winter  bring  again  the  Spring : 

The  laggard  seasons 
At  length  will  go  : — the  thrush  return  to  yonder  wood, 


But  in  the  heart  of  Europe,  mine 
Will  constant  beat,  and  know  no  change  : 
For  you,  as  steadfast  keep  its  faith, 
In  the  Old  World,  as  in  the  New  : 

Let  the  winds  waft  me 

Where'er  they  will :  —  still  Love  will  bring  me  back  to 
you." 


The  Autumn  came  with  golden  days  : 
The  Winter  went, — another  Spring 
Flushed  the  warm  hill  and  all  the  vale. 
The  Summer  brought  again  the  rose, — 

The  spirea  nodded 
In  the  rich  meadow,— and  the  aster  by  the  road. 


Below  the    Woodland,  43 

Upon  the  honeysuckle  bank, 
Within  the  shadow  of  a  birch, 
One  summer  day,  below  the  wood, 
A  maiden  sits,  by  yonder  stream  : 

A  sunbeam  quivers 
Upon  the  little,  silent  eddy  at  her  feet. 


Deep  in  the  woodland  sleeps  the  shade, 
Where  sits  and  sings  the  lonely  thrush, 
While  in  the  fastness  of  the  hill, 
Is  heard  the  veery's  mellow  flute  : 

The  yellow-hammer 
Sits  in  the  sugar-bush, — the  jay  pipes  in  the  ash. 


The  ship  has  sailed,  O,  long  ago, 
And  made  its  voyage  o'er  the  main  : 
The  ship,  O,  long  ago,  returned, 
But  never  he, —  from  yonder  Rhine. 

All  lands,  —  all  seasons, — 
Where'er  the  round  sun  shines,  thou  hast  for  thine, 

O  Love ! 


IN   THE   OLD  CHURCH-TOWER. 


The  bell  hangs   in  the  low  church-tower,    and   at  the 

curfew, 
In  the  small  hamlet,  ringeth  the  stout  old  sexton,  each 

season, 
And  as  the  great  bell  swings   heavily  to  and  fro  in  the 

belfry, 
Over  the  village  peal  its  loud  tones,  like  a  deep,  solemn 

anthem. 

Hard  by,  an  ancient  wall,  often  o'errun  with  the  bram 
ble, 
With  the  wild  grapevine  and  ivy,  surrounds  the  small 

village  churchyard, 
Where  through  the  shrubbery,  each  season,  shine  the 

white  tombstones. 


In  the  Old  Church-Tower.  45 

Dark  by  the  street,  but  a  rod  from  the  church,  is  the 
high  and  wide  gateway, 

And  a  small  path  from  it  runs,  overgrown  with  the  soft, 
rich  greensward, 

Between  the  low  mounds,  here  and  there,  in  the  enclos 
ure. 

Often  within  it,  the  tombstones  lean  from  their  upright 
position, — 

On  the  more  ancient  ones,  the  names  are  hidden  by 
lichens. 

Often  in  Spring  and  Summer,  the  robin  sings  there  in 
the  sumach. 

Often  the  blackbird  is  heard,  as  he  sits  there  and  sin^s 

O 

in  the  bramble. 
Buildeth  there,  each  season,  the  swallow  its  nest  in  the 

belfry, 
While  o'er  the  mounds  daily  creeps  the  shadow  of  the 

sharp  church-spire. 
Old  is  the  sexton,  and  fat,  but  he   pulleth  the  bell-rope 

right  strongly, 
And  as  the  great  bell  heavily  swings  to  and  fro,  in  the 

church-tower, 
Over  the  village  peal  its  loud  tones,  like  a  deep,  solemn 

anthem. 
It  is  a  day  in   mid-summer, —  and  slowly  there  moves 

through  the  gateway, 


46  Iii  flic  Old  Church-Tower. 

A    dark    procession,  —  while    over    the    hamlet   low 

shineth 
The  large,  round  sun,  touching  with  golden  light  all  the 

church-spire. 
Gently  they  lay  in  the   earth   there,   a  maiden   of  but 

sixteen  summers. 
Fair  is  her  brow7,  and  her  cheek  as   the   lily,  pale-white, 

in  the  soft  air. 

Gently  they  lay  her  to  rest,  in  the  quiet  earth,  by  the  su 
mach, 
Which  o'er  the  grave,  that  was  made  there  so  lately,  casts 

its  small  shadow. 
Slowly  the   dark  procession  windeth  from  out  the  green 

church-yard. 
Heavily  closes  the  gate,  when  the  church-yard  is  silent 

and  empty, 
While  o'er  the  tombstones  and   mounds,   creepeth   the 

soft  evening  shadows. 
Old  is  the  sexton  and  fat,  but  he  pulleth  the  bell-rope 

right  strongly, 
And  as  the  great  bell  heavily  swings  to  and  fro,  in  the 

church-tower, 
Over  the  village,  peal  its  loud  tones,  like  a  deep,  solemn 

anthem. 


BEYOND  THE   MEADOW. 


MILD  shone  the  sun  upon  the  summer  landscape, 
And  warm  below  us  lay  the  silent  valley, 
While  here  and  there  among  the  sleepy  willows, 
We  saw  the  shimmer  of  the  winding  river, 
As  in  the  shadow  of  the  maple, 
We  sat  together  on  the  grass-land, 
And  in  the  forest, 
Dim  behind  us, 
We  heard  the  clear  note 
Of  the  wood-thrush. 


48  Beyond  the  Meadow. 


Beyond  us,  slept  the  shadows  of  the  elm-trees, 
Along  the  vale, — as  o'er  the  clear  horizon 
The  sun  hung  large  and  round  above  the  woodland, 
And  touched  the  gentle  slope  with  softest  sunshine. 
And  as  we  looked  across  the  meadow, 
We  dimly  saw  the  quiet  village 

Among  the  lindens, 

And  low  above  them, 

In  the  warm  sunlight, 

The  village  church-spire. 


O,  long  we  talked,  as  near  us,  through  the  ashes, 
We  sat  and  gazed  upon  the  distant  lowland, 
The  hill  beyond  us,  and  the  silent  hamlet, 
As  on  us  breathed  the  gentle  air  of  evening. 
Along  the  -level  fields  below  us, 
We  heard  the  oriole  and  blackbird, 
And  in  the  spice-bush, 
Not  far  above  us, 
In  the  high  pasture, 
The  vesper -sparrow. 


Beyond  the  Meadow.  49 

Oft  with  our  eyes,  we  traced  the  winding  streamlet, 
As  glowed  the  sunbeams  on  its  glassy  bosom, 
And  oft  we  caught  faint  glimpses  of  the  church-spire, 
That  in  the  distance  rose  above  the  village. 

And  long  we  talked  of  vanished  summers, 
Of  golden  days,  in  far-off  autumns, 

As  on  the  valley, 

And  all  the  upland, 

Stole  the  calm  twilight 

Softly  o'er  us. 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTE    TO    MARGARET'S 
LAMENT. 


It  was  left  for  modern  scholars  to  wipe  away  the  stain  which,  for  so  many  hun 
dred  years,  has  rested  upon  the  reputation  of  Sappho.  The  ode  which  she  ad 
dressed  to  her  brother,  reproaching  him  wth  his  love  for  a  courtesan,  could  never 
have  been  written  by  one  who  had  been  herself  a  courtesan.  And  the  relation 
which  existed  between  her  and  Alcajus,  forms  one  of  the  immortal  friendships 
of  the  world,  —  a  beautiful  episode  of  history.  Alcasus  himself  gives  testimony 
to  her  moral  worth,  and  calls  her  "violet-crowned,  pure,  sweetly-smiling  Sappho." 
Her  poetry,  if  we  may  believe  the  voice  of  antiquity,  was  unrivalled  for  sweetness 
and  purity,  —  a  judgment  certainly  confirmed  by  the  few  verses  which  remain 
of  her  effusions.  She  composed  a  great  number  of  odes,  epigrams,  elegies, 
and  epithalamiums,  and  all  her  poems  were  upon  love.  The  Greeks  called 
her  the  "Tenth  Muse,"  and  thus  crowned  her  with  greener  bays  than  any 
wreathed  about  the  temples  of  Anacreon  or  Menander.  Strabo  looked  upon 
her  as  a  prodigy,  and  thought  all  other  women  inferior  to  her  in  writing  poe 
try.  Vossius  says,  that  none  of  the  Greek  poets  excelled  her  for  sweetness  of 
verse.  The  Mitylenians  held  her  in  such  high  esteem,  that  they  stamped  their 
coin  with  her  image.  And  the  Romans  admired  her  genius  so  much,  that  they 
erected  a  statue  of  porphyry  to  her  memory.  But  nothing  remains  of  her 


Introductory  Note. 


productions,  save  some  fragments  which  the  ancient  Scholiasts  have  cited,  — 
an  ode  to  Venus  in  the  Sapphic  measure,  —  another  ode  yet  more  beautiful, 
descriptive  of  the  emotions  of  love, — and  some  epigrams.  She  added  a  lyric 
measure  to  Greek  versification,  of  great  harmony,  called  after  her  own  name, 
which  Catullus  and  Horace  afterwards  successfully  introduced  into  their  Latin 
compositions.  The  fragment  that  has  been  preserved  by  Longinus,  exhibits  a 
beauty  of  conception  which  shines  through  Ambrose  Phillips'  pure  English,  like 
an  antique  gem : 

Blest  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 
The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while, 
Softly  speak,  and  sweetly  smile. 

'Twas  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  torments  in  my  breast; 
Far  while  I  gazed,  in  transport  tost, 
My  breath  was  gone, — my  voice  was  lost. 

My  bosom  glowed, — the  subtle  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame  : 
O'er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung ; 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chilled, — 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrilled : 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play, 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 

Muller,  in  remarking  upon  this  poem,  says,— "In  this,  and  even  in  stronger 
terms,  the  poetess  expresses  nothing  more  than  a  friendly  attachment  to  a  young 
girl,  but  which,  from  the  extreme  excitement  of  feeling,  assumes  all  the  tone  of 
the  most  ardent  passion." 

I  will  only  add,  that  I  have  made  no  attempt  to  translate  any  of  her  poems, 
but  my  aim  has  simply  been,  to  give  the  reader  some  idea  of  the  Sapphic  meas 
ure,  of  which  the  first  foot  consisted  of  a  trochee,  the  second  of  a  spondee,  the 
third  of  a  dactyl,  and  the  fourth  and  fifth  of  a  trochee.  It  is  only  an  attempt  to 
introduce  an  ancient  metre  into  English  verse. 


MARGARET'S    LAMENT. 


IN    SAPPHIC    MEASURE. 


[She  sits  by  the  open  window  in  May,  and  looks  out  into  the  Garden] 


Henry,  return  !  long  are  the  months  since  that  day, 
When,  by  yon  stream  parting,  you  left  me,  saying, 
Absence  could  but  deepen  your  love.     The  meadow 
Blossoms  no  more.     Everywhere  missing  you  here, 
What  is  the  landscape  to  me  ?     Where  art  thou  now  ? 
Spring  comes,  but  you  meet  me  no  more.     The  orchard 
Blooms  not, — the  tree  where  we  sat,  whispers  only, 


Margaret* s   Lament.  53 


Henry,  thy  name, — whisper  the  sad  leaves, — Henry  ! 
Blossoms  the  rose  now  no  more  in  the  garden, 
Blossoms  no  more  in  the  yard  now  the  lilac. 
Lovely  seems  no  longer  the  sycamore  tree  : 
Now  by  my  lone  window,  blooms  not  the  snowball. 
Yonder,  in  the  meadow,  I  often  wander, 
Yonder,  the  stream  where  we  sat  when  we  parted, 
Chants  its  low  song,  murmuring  thy  name  sadly, 
Thou  art  not  here.     Many  the  months  since  that  day, 
When  by  yon  stream  parting,  you  left  me  saying, 
Absence  could  but  deepen  your  love.     Where  art  thou  ? 


THE    PORTRAIT. 


T)EFORE  this  portrait  long  I've  stood, 

And  gazed  upon  this  face,  which   instinct  seems  with 

life, 
Which  ne'er  grows  old,  but  keeps  its  beauty,  year  by 

year, 
Beyond  the  flight  and  frost  of  Time. 


It  holds  me  by  a  magic  spell  : 
The  features  wear  the  look  of  calm  intelligence, 
I  read  a  half-sad  meaning  in  the  clear,  deep  eyes, 

Too  lull,  too  deep  for  speech. 


The  Portrait.  55 

A  sweet  expression  have  the  lips, 

And  the  mild  countenance,  though  handsome,  thought 
ful  seems ; 
Scarcely  across  this  brow,  unfurrowed  yet  by  care, 

Have  more  than  seventeen  summers  passed. 

Gazing  within  these  hazel  orbs, 
This  countenance  so  like  a  pleasant  day  in  Spain, 
I  look  as  on  a  fair  perspective  lengthening  out 

To  distant,  mellow  skies  beyond. 

Or  as  one  from  a  gentle  hill 

Looks  on  the  windings  of  a  silent,  distant  stream, 
And  catches,  through  the  reaches  of  the  landscape  fair, 

Its  light  and  shade  in  fields  below. 

This  face  was  painted  long  ago, 
And  once  did  grace  the  gallery  in  old  Seville, 
By  Atanasio  Boccanegra, — a  rare 

And  famous  artist  in  his  day. 

Artist  and  she  whose  young  life  looked 
From  out  the  depths  of  these   half-sad  and  liquid  eyes, 
Who  once  had  all  the  fresh,  rare  beauty  painted  here, 

Have  long  gone  back  to  common  earth. 


56  The  Portrait. 

Two  hundred  years  have  they  been  dust. 
<The  hand  of  him  who  painted  this,  laid  down  its  brush 
Within  the  last  half  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

At  thirty,  its  rare  skill  forgot. 

Fain  would  I  know  her  history, 

Who  on  this  canvass  greets  me  from  the  distant  Past, 
Who  looks  upon  me  with  a  pensive  tenderness, 

From  out  this  carved  and  antique  frame. 

The  book  is  shut :  an  unseen  hand 
Has  to  the  volume  fixed  the  clasp ;  yet  one  may  read 
What  the  old  artist  has  revealed, — and  seem  to  trace 

The  words  upon  its  lettered  page. 

Here,  as  I  study  this  young  face, 
All  that  the  fair  page  of  this  countenance  reveals, 
Fancy  doth  conjure  up  the  story  of  her  life, 

And  links  to  thought  a  tender  tale. 

The  shadow  of  a  grief  is  there. 

What  was  its  cause  I  know  not, — none  may  ever  know. 
It  darkens  those  mild  eyes,  as  some  light,  fleecy  cloud 

The  bosom  of  a  lake  in  June, 


The  Portrait,  57 

And  as  I  musing  gaze  thereon, 
I  trust  that  face  did  never  take  a  darker  shade, 
And    the    fair    stream   of    that   young   life    at    length 
flowed  on, 

In  sunshine,  till  it  reached  the  sea. 

And  wiser  has  it  made  my  heart, 
This  portrait,  that  a  living  poem  is  to  me, 
That  for  a  while  has  lifted  my  dull  brain  from  care, 

And  rilled  an  hour  with  dreamy  thought. 

And  many  heart-felt  thanks  I  give, 
O  Atanasio  Boccanegra, — to  thee, 

For  this  rare  picture,   all  I  Ve  dreamed   this   half-hour 
gone, 

Of  this  sweet  face,  and  old  Seville. 


IN    PEACE, 


He  sends  his  nepenthe  of  healing  to  all, 
By  a  seneschal  gray. 

AKAMIS  :  Resurgamus. 


ODAY,  that  in  my  memory  is  hallowed, 
O  by-gone  day,  that  through  the  mists  and  shad 
ows 
Of  twenty  seasons,  like  a  mild  star  shineth  : 


By  the  warm  hill  I  sit  below  the  orchard, 

While  the  south  wind  breathes  lightly  on  my  forehead, 

And  smiles  the  fresh,  soft  scene  from  all  the  landscape, 


In  Peace.  59 

Where  art  thou,  who,  by  yonder  bank  of  cowslips, 
As  sunk  the  fair,  round  sun  behind  the  hill-top, 
And  all  the  air  was  genial  with  the  spring-time  : 

As  the  soft  breeze  of  evening  wooed  thy  tresses, 

And  May,  with  warm  lips,  gently  kissed  thy  pale  cheek, 

And  sang  the  robin  blithely  in  the  beech-tree  : 

While  half  in  shadow  slept  the  level  meadow, 

And  half  the  elms  were  bathed  with  softest  sunshine, 

And  crept  the  streamlet  through  the  distant  valley : 

As  oft  you  talked  of  the  long  days  in  Summer, 

Which  soon  would  bring  the  wood-thrush  to  the  forest. 

And  the  song-sparrow  to  the  upland  pasture  : 

Didst  sit  beside  me,  in  that  far-off  sunset, 

0  friend  of  yore  ?     The  robin  in  the  beech-tree 
Sings  near, — the  slope  is  white  with  apple-blossoms  : 

And  in  the  faint  light  of  this  soft  spring  evening, 

1  think  how  many  suns  have  set  and  risen, 
Since  the  first  violet  blossomed  on  thy  bosom. 


o 


ABOVE  THE   VILL. 


NE  far-off  clay  I  well  recall. 


And  yet  it  seems  scarce  more  to  me  than  five  brief  years, 
Since,  from  the  green  slope  of  this  pleasant  hill,  I  took 
My  farewell  view  of  yonder  vale. 


There  lies  the  village, — where  the  spire 

Of  yon  small   church  o'erlooks   the   houses   white  and 

brown  : 

How  quietly  between  the  hills  it  sleeps  today, 
Lit  by  the  setting  autumn  sun  ! 


Above  the    Vill.  61 

There  runs  the  little  straggling  street, 
Between  the  ancient  elm-trees  down  the  gentle  slope  : 
I  see,  half-hidden  by  the  shade,  the  narrow  lawn, 

A  green  spot  in  the  dusty  vill  ! 

There  stands  the  small,  red  hostelry, 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  ancient  sycamore  : 
The  sign  glows  in  the  sun, — hard  by,  the  quiet  porch 

Looks  as  of  yore  on  yonder  way. 

Beyond  the  hamlet  winds  the  stream, 
In  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  meadow-land  below, — 
While  through  the  scattered  alders  gleams  the  shallow 
pond, 

The  low  roof  of  the  small,  gray  mill. 

In  the  soft  shadow  oft  I  catch 

Faint  glimpses  of  the  church-yard  near  the  village  green  : 
And  through  the  willows,  in  the  clear  September  light, 

I  see  the  snow-white  tombstones  shine. 

Hard  by,  beside  the  still  highway, 
I  see  the  white,  square  belfry  of  the  wooden  church  : 
How  small  it  looks,  above  the  smooth  and  level  lawn, 

Among  the  dark-green  linden  trees  ! 


62  Above  the    Vill. 


Between  the  houses  oft  I  gaze, 
Along  the  avenue  half-hidden  from  my  sight : 
Deep  lies  the  shade  to-day  within  the  sleepy  vill, 

And  silent  seems  the  empty  street ! 

O  landlord  of  the  Holly  Tree, 
Who  stood  with  plump,  round  figure,  with  your  genial 

face, 
And  welcomed  all  who  crossed  the  threshold  of  your  inn, 

With  cheerful  words,  and  pleasant  smile, — 

You  stand  no  more  in  yonder  porch, 
Or  in  the  bar-room  of  the  ancient  hostelry  : 
There  your  last  pleasant  story  has  at  length  been  told, — 

You  Ve  stopped,  long  since,  at  Life's  last  Inn. 

O  master  of  the  village  school, 
Who  in  yon  small  house  swayed  your  sceptre,  year  by 

year  : 
The  red  house  down  the  shady  street,  I  see, — the  school 

Long  since, — has  been  dismissed, — I  know. 

O  village  pastor,  all  men  knew, 
Who  in  the  high  and  antique  pulpit  stood  so  oft : 
You,  in  yon  hamlet,  watch  no  more  your  rustic  flock, 

Nor  quit  to-day  the  common  fold. 


A  dove  the    VilL  63 

O  white-haired  sexton, — who  of  yore, 
So  many  summers  plied  your  spade  in  yonder  vale, — 
You,  in  yon  church-yard,  joke  no  more  with  your  friend 
Death, 

Nor  break  the  fresh,  rich  greensward  now. 

And  you,  as  year  by  year  went  by, 
O  miller,  busy  at  your  task,  from  morn  to  eve, 
For  you,  the  Autumn  brings  no  more  the  yellow  grain, 

Each  season,  now,  to  yonder  mill. 

But  as  I  look  adown  the  street, 
Or  o'er  the  pleasant  houses,  sleeping  in  the  vill, 
Gleams  o'er  the  Past  a  light,  like  yonder  setting  sun, 

And  mute  lips  speak  in  Fancy's  ear  ! 


HADRIAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SOUL. 


Among  the  ravages  of  Time,  one  regrets  to  reckon  so  many  in 
teresting  and  valuable  works  of  classical  literature.  A  perfect 
copy  of  Sappho's  poems  would  be  an  inexpressible  delight  to  any 
scholar  or  any  lover  of  letters.  Who  would  not  recover  the  lost 
books  of  Livy  from  oblivion,  if  he  could  ?  And  the  lost  Annals  of 
Ennius,  the  missing  Fasti  of  Ovid,  and  the  extinct  plays  of  Aris- 
tarchus,  would  they  not  be  precious  if  we  could  recover  them  too  ? 
Hadrian's  Address  to  his  Soul,  a  light  waif,  has  floated  safely  over 
the  gulfs  that  have  washed  down  so  many  writings  of  antiquity, 
wafted  to  our  time  from  the  second  century ; — a  small  composition 
which  covers  no  more  than  a  scrap  of  paper ; — four  little  lines,  but 
an  exquisite  bit  of  sentiment. 

Animula,  vagula,  blandula, 
Hospes,  comesque  corporis, 
Quae  mine  abibis  in  Ipca, 
Pallidula,  frigida,  nudula, 
Nee,  ut  soles,  dabis  jocos  ? 

THOU  gentle  wanderer,  guest  of  the  body  and  com 
panion, 

Say,  to  what  country  art  thou  going,  cold  and  defence 
less  ? 

Sad  art  thou  now  ?  and  the  jests  which  you  uttered  so 
late,  are  they  silent  ? 


IN  SHADOW. 


Tears 


Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  in  the  eyes, 

In  looking  on  the autumn  fields. 

And  thinking  ot"  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


TENNYSON  :    The  Princess. 


TV' JOW,  when  the  warm  September  day  has  ended, 
•*-  ^  As  Eve,  on  hill  and  valley  drops  her  mantle, 
And  half  the  landscape  is  dissolved  in  shadow,  — 


Here,  on  this  once  familiar  spot,  I  linger, 

Where  softly  slopes  the  sward,  and  gently  murmurs 

The  shallow  stream  below  me  in  the  alders. 


66  In  Shadow. 

The  thin,  pale  moonbeams  quiver  on  its  bosom, 
Through  the  near  copse,  whose  leaves  untouched    by 

Autumn, 
O'er  the  small  stream  scarce  stir  upon  the  branches. 

And  in  the  west,  above  the  dark  horizon, 
I  see  the  crescent  moon  between  the  poplars, 
And  just  o'er  yonder  hill,  the  planet  Venus. 

Hard  by  yon  cloud  that  floats  above  the  forest, 
And  touches  at  its  lowest  edge  the  pine-tops, 
Hangs  Mars,  a  ruby  on  the  brow  of  evening. 

And  in  the  distance,  o'er  the  darkened  valley, 

Across  the  surface  of  the  level  meadows, 

I  see  the  small  lights  of  the  hamlet  glimmer, — 

While  near  me,  and  beyond  me,  in  the  grass-land, 
And  constant  in  each  clump  of  gloomy  alders, 
The  evening  crickets  hum  their  drowsy  chorus. 

The  influence  of  the  scene  steals  o'er  my  spirit, 
As  on  my  senses  float  the  sky  and  landscape, 
And  oft  I  yield  myself  to  thoughtful  revery. 


In  Shadow.  67 

From  out  the  Past,  comes  back  a  mild,  clear  evening, 
With  many  golden  sunsets  shining  through  it, 
One  mild,  calm  evening  in  the  early  Autumn,  — 


When  on  the  smooth,  green  field  beyond  the  lowland, 
You,  friend  of  other  days,  on  yonder  hillside, 
Last  sat  in  talk  with  me  below  the  maples. 

Pleasant  the  lights  shone  from  the  distant  village, 
While  dark  below  us  looked  the  silent  meadows, 
And  dimly  swam  the  far-off  vale  and  upland. 

And  then,  as  now,  above  the  round  horizon, 
Shone  the  new  moon  beyond  the  western  pine-tops, 
And  just  o'er  yonder  hill,  the  planet  Venus. 

Gazing  upon  the  scene,  I  well  remember, 

While  the  new  moon  faintly  revealed  your  features, 

And  slept  the  woodland  on  the  hill  behind  us, — 

In  our  long  talk,  we  touched  our  old,  vexed  question, 
Man's  life,  linked  strangely  to  the  Past  and  Future, 
And  that  dim  world  that  lies  beyond  the  mortal. 


68  In  Sliadow. 

Turning  your  face  with  a  half-sad  expression, 

Towards  the  faint  light  that  in  the  dark  sky  glimmered, 

While  half  the  distant  slope  was  hid  in  shadow,  — 


You  said, — "Of  this,  my  faith  holds  firm,  that  sometime. 
Somewhere,  we  shall  attain  to  clearer  insight : 
That  in  the  Present,  what  we  see  but  darkly, — 


And  here  we  vainly  seek  to  solve  by  Reason, 
Shall  lie,  at  length,  in  our  more  subtle  vision, 
Clear  as  these  fields,  in  Noon's  broad  glare,  to-morrow, 


And  as  I  look  above  the  calm  horizon, 

I  think,  at  last,  in  some  pure  realm  of  ether, 

To  you,  all  doubt  is  changed  to  perfect  knowledge. 


BY   THE   BROOK. 


TN    yonder  glen,  a  shallow  streamlet 
-*•      Slips  in  its  small  bed  o'er  the  pebbles, 
Among  the  maples  and  the  birches, 
While  on  its  banks  the  sombre  alders 
Half  hide  from  sight  the  narrow  channel. 
On  pleasant  days,  the  golden  sunshine 
Steals  inward  through  the  thick-leaved  branches, 
Aud  softly  sleeps  upon  its  bosom. 


jo  By  the  Brook. 


It  makes  a  pleasant,  constant  murmur, 

Through  all  the  hours  of  Spring  and  Summer, 

Through  all  the  mellow  clays  of  Autumn, 

Filling  the  glen  with  its  low  music. 

And  yearly  bloom  along  its  margin, 

The  snowdrop  and  the  early  primrose. 

The  orchis  and  the  yellow  violet. 

On  either  side  slopes  the  smooth  pasture, 

Where  a  few  scattered  trees  each  season 

Cast  a  cool  shade  upon  the  greensward. 

As  runs  the  dell  to  meet  the  valley, 

The  brooklet  drops  to  yonder  meadow, 

And  further  on,  a  dozen  houses 

Rest  quietly  behind  the  lindens, 

While  o'er  the  little  rustic  hamlet, 

Rises  a  single,  ancient  church-spire. 

Upon  the  margin  of  the  streamlet, 

One  summer  day,  in  early  August, 

Sat,  on  the  mossy  bank,  a  maiden, 

Within  the  shadow  of  a  willow, 

As  stole  the  sunlight  through  the  maples, 

The  thick-leaved  branches  of  the  birches, 

Lighting  up  here  and  there  the  water, 

That  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sunshine, 

As  it  ran  on  in  light  and  shadow, 


By  t/ie  Brook.  71 

Slipped  smoothly  downward  o'er  the  pebbles. 

And  on  the  air,  in  soft,  low  accents, 

Was  borne,  at  times,  this  plaintive  burden  : 

"  How  many  months  are  gone  ! 
O  weary  months  to  me, 
Since  by  the  cottage  gate 

We  parted 

Under  the  summer  stars, 
While  o'er  the  western  hill 
Hung  the  low,  crescent  moon 

Above  us, 

As  with  a  fresh  June  rose 
He  decked  my  hair,  and  said, 

'  When  the  next  Spring 

Should  flush  the  fields, 
And  wake  the  early  flowers, 
When  next  the  lilacs  bloomed, 
And  snowballs  in  the  yard 

Again  were  white, 

He  would  return, 
And  hand  in  hand  we  'd  go 
With  Love,  from  May  to  May.' 
But  ah !  from  May  to  May, 

Men's  hearts  are  false, 
Are  false,  from  May  to  May  !  " 

And  the  stream  ran  on  in  its  way  to  the  valley, 
O'er  the  smooth,  brown  stones  to  the  quiet  meadow, 
In  its  channel  ran  on,  with  a  pleasant  murmur, 
While  the  robin  sat  near  and  sang  in  the  beech-tree. 

"  Twice  have  the  lilacs  blossomed  since, 
And  twice  the  snowballs  in  the  yard ; 


72  By  tJic  Brook. 


But  never  since  that  hour 

We  parted 

Beside  the  garden  gate, 
Under  the  crescent  moon, 
While  on  us  looked 
The  summer  stars, 
Has  he  returned 
To  Love  or  me. 
Now  Grief  goes  hand  in  hand, 

Alas! 

From  May  to  May  with  me, 
With  me  from  May  to  May  !  " 

And  the  stream  ran  on  in  its  way  to  the  valley, 
O'er  the  smooth,  brown  stones  to  the   quiet  meadow, 
In  its  channel  ran  on,  with  a  pleasant  murmur, 
While  the  bobolink  sang  hard  by  in  the  maple. 

"The  bright  days  come  and  go, 
And  Nature's  face  is  fair  ; 
To  me  all  days  are  sad, 
And  smile  the  fields  no  more, 
Since  Hope  and  Love  have  flown, 

Ah,  me  1 
Since  Hope  and  Love  have  flown !  " 

And  the  stream  ran  on  in  its  way  to  the  valley, 
O'er  the  smooth,  brown  stones  to  the  quiet  meadow, 
In  its  channel  ran  on,  with  a  pleasant  murmur, 
While  the  field-sparrow  sat  and  sang  in  the  alders. 


IN   THE  CRADLE   OF   THE   HILL. 


TI>  Y  this  small  pond  upon  the  hill, 

As  in  the  west  the  August  sun  shines  down  the  pleasant 

slope, 
And  the   soft  air  the  branches  stir  above  the  shallow 

pool, 
I  sit,  where  Fancy  woos  me  oft. 


Hard  by  me,  in  the  orchard  trees, 
Whose  tops  against  the  hillside  lean,  the  dark-red  apples 

gleam ; 
The  restful  sky,  above  the  near  horizon  where  I  sit, 

Sleeps  in  the  calm  wave  at  my  feet 
10 


74  In  the  Cradle  of  the  Hill. 

Thick  are  yon  oak-trees'  leaves  and  green, 
That  for  a  hundred  years   has  thrown  its   shadow  o'er 

the  glebe  : 
To-day,  it  casts  a  pleasant  shade  where  the  still  cattle  lie, 

Along  th£  smooth,  rich  pasture  sward. 

Beyond  me,  are  the  willows,  where 
The    clump    of    yon    witch-hazel   waves   to    the   warm 

summer  wind  : 
O'er  the  moist  margin  of  the  pond  the  blue  flag  lightly 

swings, 
The  bulrush  and  the  celandine. 

The  birds  have  sought  the  deep-wood  shade, 
And  hushed  their  notes  on  all  the  slope  above  the  quiet 

vale  : 
But  in  the  ash  that  rears  its  top  among  the  willows  near, 

I  hear  the  sharp,  shrill  locust  sing. 

Anon  the  soft  air  fans  my  cheek  : 

The  thistle-blossom  gently  nods  by  yonder  mossy  rock  : 
And  near,  beyond  the  tufted  knoll,  the  ancient  pine-tree 
makes 

A  drowsy  murmur  in  my  ear. 


In  the  Cradle  of  the  Hill.  75 

Above  me,  in  the  pasture-land, 

Beside  yon  small,  low  clump  of  alders,  sways  the  golden- 
rod: 

And  by  the  water's  edge,  the  south  wind  stirs  the  pop 
lar  boughs, 
Where  nods  the  orchis  in  the  shade. 

There  waves  the  white  spiraea  beyond, 
Beside  the  purple  vervain  and  the  blooming  clematis  : 
While  in   the  clear  pool  sleeps    the   water-lily   in    the 
sun, 

As  snow-white  through  the  flags  it  gleams. 


How  noiseless  seems  the  distant  world  ! 
Afar  below  me,  sleeps  the  hamlet  in  the  quiet  vale  : 
Scarce  is  a  sound  in  all  the  circle  of  the  summer  hills  ; 

And  dreamy  is  the  silent  air. 

Serene  is  all  the  summer  sky. 

I  lie  along  the  greensward  of  the  pleasant  pasture-slope, 
And  o'er  the  branches  of  the  willows,  near  me  bending 
low, 

Look  far  within  its  peaceful  depths. 


76  In  the  Cradle  of  the  Hill. 

Here,  in  this  spot,  the  pulse  of  Life 
Beats  undisturbed  :  and  here  a  blessed  influence  soothes 

my  soul : 
I  feel  thy  arms,  O  Nature,  fold  me  gently  to  thy  breast : 

Thy  warm  heart  throb  against  my  own. 

Here  breathes  thy  spirit  into  mine, 
The  accents  of  a  low,  still  voice,  like  a  celestial  psalm  : 
With   thee    I    hold   communion,    and  in  sympathy  am 
one 

With  every  form  and  mood  of  thine. 

O  pale  flower,  sleeping  in  yon  lake, 
In  all  the  memory  of  this  day,  you  shall  forever  bloom  : 
In  yon  small  pond,  shall  sleep  forevermore   the  restful 
sky, 

A.nd  o'er  it  wave,  ye  willow  boughs  ! 

You  have  become  a  part  of  me, 

Ye  verdant  summer  fields,  from  this  blest  hour  until  I  die  ; 
Through  every  year,  the  breath  of  this  sweet  day  shall 
fan  my  cheek, 

And  you,  for  aye,  O  sweet  scene,  smile  ! 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  SOME  ENGLISH 
RURAL  POETS. 


I  SUPPOSE  not  many  persons  read  Pope's  pastorals  now-a-days, 
but  they  were  read  and  admired  a  century  and  three-quarters  ago. 
One  breathes  the  fresh  air  of  the  country  in  Shakspeare's  rural 
descriptions,  which  are  among  the  most  exquisite  in  our  literature. 
We  walk  hand  in  hand  with  Herrick  through  his  "  Hesperides," 
and  at  every  step,  catch  the  sight  of  rural  delights  which  have  a 
perennial  freshness.  One  gladly  joins  with  him  in  the  simple 
pleasures  of  the  "  Harvest  Home,"  and  is  always  ready  to  go 
a-maying  with  his  "  Corinna."  We  travel  back,  in  imagination,  to 
the  pastures  and  meadows,  the  wroods  and  streams,  which  we  left 
behind  us  long  ago,  and  as  we  do,  we  wipe  some  natural  moisture 
from  the  eye,  it  may  be.  With  good  Izaak  Walton  does  one 
ever  tire  of  angling  ?  As  he  leads  us  among  the  simple  scenes  of 
Nature,  we  find  him  very  pleasant  company,  and  often  recall  what 
Wordsworth  says  of  his  prose-pastoral ;  —  "  Fairer  than  life  itself 
is  this  sweet  book."  The  picturesque  charms  of  rural  England  are 
perpetually  reproduced  in  "  L' Allegro  "  and  "II  Penseroso."  Collins' 
"  Ode  to  Evening,"  is  like  the  close  of  a  serene  summer  day  in 
the  country ;  and  "  Gray's  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard,"  like 
the  calm  of  a  rural  Sabbath  to  the  mind.  Goldsmith  revives  the 
simple  pictures,  the  pure  associations,  of  childhood,  and  his  village 


78        On  Some  English  Rural  Poets. 


pastor  and  village  schoolmaster  are  friends  with  whom  we  never 
part  company.  Burke  said  of  his  pastoral  scenes,  "They  beat 
all ;  Pope  and  Phillips,  and  Spencer  too,  in  my  opinion."  But 
we  may  say  of  them,  what  certainly  could  not  be  said  of  Pope's, 
that  they  might  at  least  be  true.  Pope  used  to  bestow  on  Phillips 
the  epithet  of  "  namby-pamby  Phillips,"  and  ridiculed  him  in  the 
"Guardian."  But  if  his  pastorals  are  inferior  to  Goldsmith's,  they 
are  greatly  superior  to  Pope's.  Goldsmith's  rural  scenes  them 
selves,  are  only  cabinet  pictures  of  Nature.  Spencer's,  a  broad 
and  lovely  English  landscape.  Cowper,  who  has  many  defects, 
always  writes  like  a  true  poet,  when  Nature  is  his  theme.  He 
was  in  sympathy  with  all  its  spirit  and  forms,  and  never  failed  to  be  its 
faithful  interpreter.  The  "  Task  "  is  still  one  of  the  best  poems 
in  our  language,  and  is  forever  associated  in  the  reader's  mind 
with  the  "  Seasons."  If,  in  the  multiplicity  of  modern  works  of 
poetry,  the  "  Seasons  "  are  read  less  than  they  were  three-quarters  of 
a  century  since,  they  must  still  be  reckoned  masterpieces  of  natu 
ral  description.  Reading  them  is  like  looking  at  a  succession  of 
fine  scenes  in  the  country.  We  see  not  only  the  broad  outlines, 
but  all  the  features  of  the  landscape.  Thomson  paints  Nature 
with  a  kind  of  epic  completeness,  so  to  speak,  as  Spring,  Sum 
mer,  Autumn  and  Winter,  gradually  change  into  each  other,  and 
round  the  circle  of  the  "  varied  year."  And  his  "  Hymn  to  the 
Seasons  "  swells  the  soul  like  the  deep  music  of  a  lofty  "  Te  Deum." 
How  many  persons  read  Crabbe  at  the  present  day  ?  It  has  been 
said,  and  the  assertion  has  a  good  deal  of  truth,  that  "  he  handles 
life  so  as  to  take  the  bloom  off  it."  Yet  his  descriptions  of  char 
acter  and  scenery  have  a  vivid  truthfulness.  But  he  has  no  sense 
of  beauty.  He  lacks  that  high  artistic  quality  which  is  so  abun 
dantly  vouchsafed  to  the  true  poet,  namely,  the  power  to  idealize 
the  subjects  which  he  treats.  And  his  poetry,  judged  by  any 
thing  like  a  high  standard,  is  no  poetry  at  all.  Often  his  pictures  are 
not  attractive,  but  rather  repulsive  to  the  imagination.  Words 
worth  was  a  sincere  lover  of  Nature,  and  its  consecrated  high 
priest.  Perhaps  he  looked  upon  it  with  too  serious  an  eye,  and 
was  inclined  to  dwell  too  much  upon  the  great  mysteries  which 
touch  Life  at  every  side.  But  the  "  Lines  written  on  Tintern  Ab- 


On  Some  English  Riiral  Poets.          79 


bey  "  charm  the  mind  with  their  chastened  sentiment  and  descrip 
tion,  like  a  still  landscape,  or  like  distant  music,  on  a  calm  sum 
mer  evening.  We  feel 

"  A  presence  that  disturbs  us  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  : 

Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  the  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration : 

that  blessed  mood, 

In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligble  world 
Is  lightened." 

"  Nine-tenths  of  my  verses,"  he  tells  us,  "  have  been  matured  in 
the  open  air."  And  we  may  well  believe  it.  Nature  is  everywhere 
mirrored  in  them,  like  the  fields  and  sky  in  the  clear  depths  of  his 
own  quiet  lakes.  Coleridge  has  written  some  of  the  best  descrip 
tive  poetry  which  we  have,  and  if  his  rural  world  is  not  a  large  one, 
he  always  gives  us  the  choicest  bits  of  landscape.  And  "  Scott's 
poetry,  like  his  prose,"  it  has  been  said,  "  carries  with  it  the  scent 
of  the  heather."  Herrick  shall  give  us  a  flower  for  May-Day, 
which  will  keep  fresh  and  beautiful  through  all  the  months  of  every 
year  : 

There  's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
(    But  's  gone  up  and  gone  to  bring  in  May  : 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and  cream, 
Before  that  we  had  left  to  dream  : 
And  some  have  wept,  and  wooed,  and  plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest  ere  we  can  throw  off  sloth. 
Many  a  green  gown  has  been  given  : 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even, 
Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  ont  the  eye,  Love's  firmament. 


ON    THE   PORTRAIT  OF    SHAKESPEARE. 


O 


FT  as  I  gaze  upon  this  face, 


Or  on  these  mild  eyes,  instinct  with  the  soul  of  Poesy, 
Imagination,  Fancy,  an  Intelligence  that  seems 
To  read  the  inmost  human  heart : 


Oft  as  I  look  upon  this  brow, 

Or  muse  upon  this  forehead  which  is  placid  as  a  child's, 
Or  trace  the  well-known  lineaments  which  this  serene 
face  wears, 

All  the  expression  written  here  , — 


On  the  Portrait  of  Shakespeare.        81 

I  think  of  Petrarch's  laurel  crown 
And  his  whose  image  here  I  trace, — where  every  nation 

binds 
A   chaplet, — and  the    bays  about  his   temples  greener 

grow 
As  seasons  wane,  and  years  return. 

I  think  how  on  his  wondrous  page, 
Our  many-sided  life  revived  beneath  his  master  hand  : 
Lived  in    its  manners,   humors,   passions,   all  its  vital 
warmth, 

And  took  once  more  its  living  hue. 

I  think  how  great  an  interest  I 
May  claim  in  that  inheritance  to  which  all  men   are 

heirs : 

Hamlet  and  Falstaff,  Richard  and  old  Lear,  —  a  hun 
dred  forms 
Which  walk  the  earth,  with  deathless  life. 

I  think  how  in  yon  Northern  Isle, 
His  genius  has  made  one   spot  now  a  Mecca  to   all 

minds : 
Has  one  small  island  made  forevermore  a  Palestine ; 

And  all  men  pilgrims  at  one  shrine. 
11 


82         On  tJie  Portrait  of  Shakespeare. 

0  Poet,  resting  by  the  stream 

Which  threads   yon  vale,  —  your  ashes  undisturbed  in 

Stratford  sleep  : 
Yet  now,   far  off,  the   spirit  that  lived  in  them,  oft  I 

think 
With  high,  celestial  pulses  beat. 

Looking  across  the  river  Styx, 
O'er  which  that  ancient  boatman,   Charon,  rowed  thee 

long  ago, 
I  see  thee  in  the  realms  Elysian,  —  in  companionship 

With  an  immortal  company. 

1  see  thee,  Bard  of  Avon,  there 

In  company  with  the  immortal  bards  of  every  clime  : 
Homer  and  Pindar,  Sophocles  and  old  Anacreon ; 
With  Sappho  and  with  ^Eschylus  : 

With  Tasso  and  the  Tuscan  bard, — 
Horace    and  gentle  Virgil, — Chaucer  and   mild   Addi- 

son, — 
With  Spencer,  Milton,  Dryden,  —  and  with  Burns,  where 

Beaumont  sits 
Hard  by,  near  '  rare  Ben  Jonson's  '  shade  ! 


SERE   LEAVES. 


Tamar I  almost  think 

Some  spiritual  creature  waits  on  thee. 
Hadad.     I  heard  no  sounds,  but  such  as  evening  sends 

Up  from  the  city  to  these  quiet  shades : 


Tamar.     The  sounds  I  mean, 

Floating  like  mournful  music  round  my  head, 

From  unseen  fingers. 
Hadad.     When? 
Tamar.     Now,  as  thou  earnest 


But  they  were  dirge-like. 


HlLLHOUSE. 


T 


kHE  oak-tree  stands  beside  the  wall, 

And   looks  upon  the  wide  highway ; 
About  its  trunk,  from  year  to  year, 
As  Summer  goes,  and  Spring  returns, 

Clings  the  wild  grapevine. 

To-day,  among  its  leaves,  I  see  its  small,  dark  berries 
gleam. 


84  Sere  Leaves. 

The  oak  has  stood  a  hundred  years 
Beside  the  wide,  the  ancient  way ; 
In  storm  and  sunshine  reared  its  head, 
And  laughed  at  Time  as  he  went  by  : 

Stood  strong  and  stately. 

Now  shine  its  sere  leaves  in  the  sun,  and  bare  are  half 
its  boughs. 


In  the  rank  soil  it  striketh  deep, 
Strikes  wide  and  deep  its  hundred  roots  : 
Its  trunk  is  rough,  and  stout,  and  tall, 
And  it  flings  out  its  branches  wide. 

And  every  season 

It  casts   a  broad   and  pleasant  shade  upon  the  rich, 
green  sward. 


I  sit  beside  its  giant  bole, 
And  listen  to  the  autumn  wind ; 
It  makes  to-day  a  mournful  sound 
Above  my  head,  in  the  old  oak-tree. 

Ever  its  murmur 

In  the  long  boughs,  falls  like  a  low,  sad  whisper,  on  my 
ear. 


Sere  Leaves.  85 

Anon  I  count  the  buried  years, 
Since  Youth  and  I  were  playmates  here, 
When  Hope,  with  whom  we  maying  went, 
And  Fancy,  with  the  hues  of  Morn, 

Crowned  Life  with  flowers 

More  fair  than  bright-eyed   Summer  brings,  or  start  at 
Spring's  soft  breath. 


How  many  faded  dreams,  I  think, 
That  flushed  the  year  from  May  to  May, 
Along  the  sere  fields  of  the  Past, 
Strow  the  bare  ground  where'er  I  tread ! 

To-day,  they  rustle 
Often  in  Memory,  with  a  dry  sound,  beneath  my  feet. 


Comes  the  dropped  foliage  to  the  tree 
No  more,  nor  by-gone  Mays  return  : 
The  landscape  blooms  no  second  time, 
In  all  the  dry  fields  of  the  Past. 

No  second  spring-time 

Have  our  flown  dreams,  and  hopes,  once  sere,  are  like 
thejast  year's  leaves. 


86  Sere  Leaves. 


The  summer  months,  erelong  will  go  : 
With  Spring  will  come  the  balmy  days  : 
And  on  this  turf,  through  August  suns, 
Your  cooling  shade,  hale  tree,  will  sleep : — 

Freshen  the  greensward. 

Each   year,  the  robin  and   the  blue-bird  sing  in  your 
green  boughs  ! 


NEPENTHE. 


A   T  length,  has  come  the  warm  May  weather. 
**•     The  sward  is  green  upon  the  upland, 
While  fresh,  beyond  me,  is  the  meadow, 
And  a  soft  mist  is  in  the  maples. 
Green,  yonder,  is  the  honeysuckle, 
Where  bloom,  each  Spring,  the  early  violets, 
And  fresh,  to-day,  are  all  the  cowslips 
In  the  warm  glen  below  the  orchard. 
New  life  to  earth,  brings  the  sweet  spring-time, 
But  does  not  to  thy  pale  cheek,  Agnes. 
Only  the  amaranth  and  rosemary, 
These  bright  days  bring  thee  —  and  nepenthe. 


M191802 


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